The Train
by Bethany Ruth
Summary: You are waiting for a train. You know he is here, somewhere...


Loud. Busy. Depressing. I'm drowning in a sea of strangers: I'm looking for you. You said you'd be here. 9:30 sharp. I'm here. It's 9:30. I can't find you. I raise myself higher than the crowd on the balls of my feet. I look around and fail to recognise a single face or figure. I don't know any of these people.

Shrieking and shining; the train slithers in to greet its awaiting minions. There's a rush of wind from its force, blowing my hair away from my eyes and pushing the smell of ancient steel works and cheap cologne up my nostrils. Gentle at first; the wave behind me pushes a little harder and my feet start moving towards the train. Maybe you're somewhere here and you're looking for me. Maybe you're somewhere behind me and you're waiting till we're both on the train so you can surprise me. Maybe you're too late.

Before I can register it; I'm reading my ticket and forcing my bag into a netting confinement, then sitting on an uncomfortable, sharp, hard plastic chair and looking out the window at the rest of the liquid crowd.

Yesterday; you finalised this idea. You said you loved me: said this way we could be together without any hassle. Maybe I shouldn't have believed you. Maybe I should have left. Maybe it's too late now: I'll never know.

My forehead rests on the window pane and my eyes close, blocking out the continuous wave after wave of sidewalk strangers entering the categorical carriages. Your six foot frame stumbles down the aisle in that clumsy way of yours that I adore: you apologise to the various people whose heads you elbow as you pass. My heart swells as you flash me one of your infamous grins, causing your eyes to wrinkle at the corners and your nose to crinkle at the bridge. Raising your rucksack to be with mine; you stretch out in a way that makes you appear godly. Your jet black hair falls back slightly and your beautiful grey eyes make contact with mine and I've found inner peace. Your grin grows wider as you take your seat beside me, gently enclosing my hand in yours. You gracefully lift my hand to your lips and bless it with the most feather light kiss: you always were so chivalrous.

Dystopia finds me as I open my eyes to see your empty seat beside me. I look up and find my bag is as alone as I am. Maybe you're still in the sea. Maybe you're in the wrong carriage. Maybe you're too late.

Sudden jolts catch my attention as the intense vibrating of the window pane forces my head away: we're setting off. My back shakes and my hands shake and I struggle to breathe. It feels as though my chest is concaving and my lungs are collapsing and my heart is bleeding fear. I always hated travelling.

This was all your idea. They'd never accept us, you said. You're better off without them, you said.

I love you more than life itself, you said.

Maybe you don't. Maybe I'm better off without _you_. Maybe they _do_ love me. Intoxicating my brain; I'm overwhelmed with the sudden scent of you. Like rough and smooth combined: sawdust and spearmint. Your smell echoes the touch of your soft lips and the contrasting rugged stubble and goatee that surrounds them. Looking down; I realise that I'm wearing your jacket: I thought it looked too big. We always got our clothes mixed up. We had a lot of the same ones but mine were small and yours were large.

I can almost taste your lips as they were on mine only last night. We were together only last night. We made love only_ last_ night and you're not here. When I close my eyes; I can still see it all, feel it all. I remember every breath you took and every nothing you whispered. Why do I miss you? Rustling along the tracks; we've picked up speed and I realise now that I can't go back. I'm running at 80mph getting faster and I can't go back. I never should have left. I never should have run away. We'd been planning this for weeks: my friends would ask why I kept such a keen eye on the train station beside my school. You'd be out at work somewhere looking up times and ticket costs. I never even said goodbye to my parents. I can still hear your words in my head: 'You're better off without them.' No I'm not. I need them: they love me. They never met you. I never told them I was gay. I never told them you're twice my age. I didn't say a word about you.

Maybe I should have.

Maybe I'll never see you again.

Maybe it's too late...


End file.
